Chapter Text
They entered the street. It was, as usual, empty. Javert followed Jean Valjean. They reached No. 7. Jean Valjean rapped. The door opened.
“Very well,” said Javert. “Go up.”
He added with a strange expression and as if he were making an effort in speaking in such a way: “I will wait here for you.”
Jean Valjean looked at Javert. This manner of proceeding was little in accordance with Javert’s habits. Still, that Javert should now have a sort of haughty confidence in him, the confidence of the cat which grants the mouse the liberty of the length of her claw, resolved as Jean Valjean was to deliver himself up and make an end of it, could not surprise him very much. He opened the door, went into the house, cried to the porter who was in bed and who had drawn the cord without getting up: “It is I!” and mounted the stairs.
On reaching the first story, he paused. All painful paths have their halting-places. The window on the landing, which was a sliding window, was open. As in many old houses, the stairway admitted the light, and had a view upon the street. The street lamp, which stood exactly opposite, threw some rays upon the stairs, which produced an economy in light.
Jean Valjean, either to take breath or mechanically, looked out of this window. He leaned over the street. It is short, and the lamp lighted it from one end to the other. Jean Valjean was bewildered with amazement; there was nobody there.
Javert was gone.
Pushing aside the incongruity of what he knew to be Javert’s habits and the present circumstance he found himself in, Jean Valjean continued mounting the stairs until he reached the level he shared with Cosette. He paused at the landing, staring at the door, dumbfounded. Was this a dream, the fantasy of a desperate mind incapable of facing reality? Or perhaps he had died at the barricades after all, and it was only his spirit that now floated back to his home to bid his dear Cosette goodbye. Even Inspector Javert could not chain the dead.
But—he gazed down at his hand poised over the door handle, and there was a shadow, his shadow, dark upon dark, more solid than anything he had ever seen—no, this was neither the realm of dreams nor of the dead. This was a world inhabited by Jean Valjean, hunted like a mouse over the years by a cat who had finally had his victim in hand, ready to crush and devour, only to then inexplicably vanish.
He was not fooled. Javert could return yet. But he had spent the past ten years clinging onto hope; so Jean Valjean chose faith once again, daring to believe in a freedom he did not deserve. Yes, Javert would return, eventually. But now, now he remained free. Now he was spared the humiliation of having cold iron clasped over his wrists in front of a horrified Cosette. Perhaps even the inspector was capable of mercy.
He turned the door and entered. His heart pounded thunderously in his ears, but he dared not make a sound. He walked silently, lest he disturbed the slumber of old Toussaint and of Cosette.
He stole into his own bed chamber. He peeled off the clothing that no longer offered any protection against the night chill—they were filthy—setting them aside to be burned later. He cleaned what mud and grime he could off his body from the small wash basin in the room, and, lest he soil his nightgown, put on a fresh set of workman’s clothing.
He looked out the window again, as if to reassure himself that the past half an hour was indeed not a dream.
No, there was no Javert. The inspector had gone.
For now.
It wasn’t until Jean Valjean slipped into the kitchen looking for bread—hunger had won the battle with sleep—that he realized something was amiss. Toussaint, the ever faithful portress, was wont to leave the dishes from supper unwashed until the morning. As she had never neglected bringing the smallest fork to a perfect shine under the day’s light, Jean Valjean never questioned her routine.
But tonight, there was neither plate nor fork set aside for tomorrow’s washing.
Cosette hadn’t taken supper. Was she ill?
Forgetting the bread, Jean Valjean took the single candle flickering in the dark, the one he had set onto the kitchen table, back into his hand. His body reflexively forced itself to swallow the one bit of bread he had put into his mouth, ignoring the pain; his throat had suddenly gone dry. Dread washed over him like tall waves overpowering the shore. He had spent the past day intent only on keeping Marius alive, but what about Cosette? He never told her of his sudden disappearance, nor had he enough charity in his heart for Marius at the time of his departure to assure Cosette that she would see her love again. Surely, his daughter must still believe that they were bound for England in a day’s time! Had she shut herself in her bedchamber from grief? If that was so, then the fault was his, and nothing he could do would atone for his dear Cosette’s broken heart.
With quick steps, he reached the door to Cosette’s room. “Cosette?” he called, softly so as to not disturb her slumber but loud enough for anyone still awake to hear. There was no response.
Carefully, Jean Valjean turned the knob and pushed the door open. In the dark, the sole candlelight seemed intent on keeping the darkness as undisturbed as possible, stubbornly refusing to reveal anything beyond an arm’s length to the eye. There was the small desk where Cosette would compose her letters, where he had first found the blotter that mirrored her missive to Marius. There was the armoire that held her dresses. There was the wash basin with the mirror, where Cosette would sing her sweet songs as she performed her ablutions and what dressing up that young ladies of her age felt compelled to do before presenting themselves to the world in the morning.
He shined the light deeper into the bedchamber.
There was the bed. Only the bed.
The candle fell onto the floor.